


Control, Corruption, Fiction, and Scorn

by Taskir



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 10:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17099198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taskir/pseuds/Taskir
Summary: Originally written 2007.





	Control, Corruption, Fiction, and Scorn

It isn't as though Nini means to be unkind. She only feels there's enough artifice in their work already, false smiles and giggles and pantomimes of modesty. The truth is simpler, cleaner, and easier to grasp. Some think that makes it more painful, but that's hardly her fault.

Poetry is nothing but more falsehoods, more dreams, more nonsense. Why compare a sunset with a fire, if you've time nor money for either? When the fire is out, why waste your time describing the shade of blue your lips are turning? Better to focus on what is real, what is necessary, despite the grief it may bring on yourself or others.

Satine doesn't feel the same way, which is, of course, part of her allure. Satine is the worst kind of fool: one who believes she isn't foolish. A person who claims not to accept the charade, but underneath, holds to it passionately.

Perhaps that's why a man with nothing to his name but a gift for metaphor is able to so completely charm her, to finish what Zidler had started and blind her to all sense. A few pretty words and Satine thinks love is all around. 

Nini realized long ago what she and Satine do is not love, and would scoff if anyone said as much. It's more borne of pride -- pride that, at the end of the day, it is her mouth between Satine’s legs, her name on Satine’s lips, and the certainty that the precious Sparkling Diamond sings only for her.

It's about possession, yes, and pleasure, naturally. But not love. 

Were she bolder, she would make the issue plainer -- leave scratches and bruises all over Satine's tender skin, marking her indelibly for all the world to see. Satine is so easily marred, and it would take but a little extra pressure here, a stronger nip with her teeth there. Surely no customer would ever notice, or care. 

She could point to each discoloration, each mark, and say: this is reality. This is truth. She could say, without hyperbole, _mine_. 

There are no sonnets or songs in what they do. What would be the point?

But as Satine’s life rasps out of her on the stage in the arms of that writer -- then even Nini can do no better than clumsily compare her heart to the ragged and torn bits of confetti strewn on the floor.


End file.
